


the problem with time

by ChromaticDreams



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Fanart Included, Gen, Grunkle Ford's Portal Adventures, POV character doesn't die, description of corpses, it doesn't get too descriptive but it's a large part of this story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 13:39:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12169983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChromaticDreams/pseuds/ChromaticDreams
Summary: Time is dead, and Ford stumbles upon an eerie reminder of the distant past.





	the problem with time

There was no time on this world.

Or at least, no way for an individual to reliably measure it by the movement of the stars.

The order of time in this system was dead and so was this planet, sinking further and further towards the point of no return with each and every waking moment. Ford traversed the rugged plains at a listless, tired pace, allowing his walking stick to act as his guide across the rubble and stones. Squinting, he gazed through the protective tint of his visor towards the endless horizon beyond him. For the stretch of time he’d existed on this planet, (based on internal clock alone his estimate was eight days, give or take), the sky had burned in perpetual sunset, bathing the long perished grasslands in an eerie reddish-orange glow. Beyond this quadrant’s sun—hidden from view— lay a gargantuan singularity, a supermassive black hole. He couldn’t quite catch a glimpse of it thanks to the glare of the sun, but nevertheless he knew it was there, filling the discernible cosmos, watching.

The human wanderer, who was fairly wrinkled and grey for a creature of his species, held a piece of alien tech in his hand. Gritting his teeth, he knocked a fist against the side of it, desperately trying to obtain a viable signal. Supposedly, this device promised to pinpoint the location of natural rifts, tears in the fabric of reality that might lead to new dimensions. He became trapped on this planet purely by chance the last time he stepped through one of these rifts, and now his only hope of escape was to find another one. Ford held the device in outstretched hands, inwardly praying to a god he left behind in his childhood to bring him _some_ means of signal, some promise that he wasn’t going to die here alone.

Pleas unanswered, he glumly slipped the tech back into his overcoat pocket and continued walking. Another failure, another breath closer to the arms of Gargantua.

It was when he crossed the dried riverbed that the stench of newly rotting flesh began to roll in.  His stomach churned, both in disgust and in hunger. Curious, Ford turned his nose to the air and began to follow the scent. He knew a few bird-like species still persisted on this planet. That was likely what he smelled— the sun baked remains of the recently departed. If he was lucky, he might be able to salvage some of the meat.

After hobbling along for some distance, he began to perceive a figure lying on its side on the horizon, surrounded by flies. He paused in his steps, heart dropping at the sight. The figure was obviously humanoid. His gut stirred in disappointment, the muscle movements almost painful. So much for new meat. Despite his moral unwillingness to gather food from the remains of an intelligent lifeform however, his inquisitive nature dragged him onwards. _What happened to this individual_ , he wondered? _How did it die? Hunger, or perhaps hunted by something else?_ The answer to any of these questions might aid him in his survival here as he searched for a rift. (Additionally, goodness knows what kind of supplies it might have carried.) With these thoughts in mind, Ford kept walking towards the corpse.

As the figure grew closer, he began to pick out more details about it. For one, the figure faced away from him, Ford approaching it— or _them_ , rather— from the back. They appeared to have died in the fetal position, wearing a tan coat that matched the dull, dusty soil of this wasteland of a planet. Another notable observation was that they weren’t very tall. By his estimates they looked rather close to _his_ height in fact, although thanks to skewed perspective it was hard to tell for certain this far away. A few strides more revealed the figure’s mussed mop of thick dark brown hair. His mouth began to drop into a frown as he began to realize just how... how _human_ this individual appeared.

Under the perpetual dying light, Ford finally met the corpse from behind, swatting away any flies that dared antagonize him. The corpse's hands stretched out in front of them, one of them holding onto a thin, rectangular slip with tragic desperation. _Yes_ , he thought with a saddened hum, _definitely human_. How another human managed to reach this planet was beyond him, but far be it for him to assume he was the only multiverse traveler of his species.

This particular human must have made quite the daring journey, he imagined— only to perish far too soon. Ford closed his eyes, briefly paying his respects.

When he opened them again however, he was hit with a sudden uncomfortable feeling of dread, one that filled his veins in an instant and left him lightheaded. For a second, when he looked at their bloodied hands he thought he saw... but no. It couldn’t be. Could it?

His gloved hands began shaking ever so slightly as he circled the corpse, revealing their face, revealing...

 _Stanford Pines_.

Through some form of cosmic coincidence, Ford stood above the remains of himself. Most likely, some parallel iteration of himself.

He let out a shaky breath, and slowly knelt down to inspect the damage. If one Ford had fallen prey to death on this planet— especially a _younger_ one— he wanted to know why. He pulled his scarf up over his nose to keep himself from becoming overwhelmed with the scent.

One thing was utterly clear: this Ford had died far, far too young. Unlike his own craggy, time worn face, his counterpart’s was nearly devoid of deep wrinkles. His hair was still full and dark, with not a grey hair to be seen. The clothes he wore— a soiled white dress shirt over slacks, and the tan coat— seemed hauntingly familiar to him, a distant memory he couldn't quite place. His midsection was a mess of dried blood, and it was clear that animals had long since begun picking away at the edges of whatever wound he’d sustained. Ford sighed heavily. At this point, he imagined it’d be far more difficult than was necessary to determine the specific cause of how he’d died. The most he could sleuth out of these remains was that his counterpart likely bled out from an abdominal wound. _Not exactly the most helpful information_ , he thought with a grimace. His heart rate increased ever so slightly as he glanced at the figure’s blood covered, six fingered hands, and the paper one of them held. _No... photograph_ , his mind supplied, catching the way the sun glinted off of its surface. Gently, he pried the photo from the corpse’s stiffened grip and held it up to the ambient light.

The human couldn’t help the tears that formed in his eyes as he stared in wonder at the photograph, the single last image his parallel self saw as he died alone in this forsaken wilderness. His face screwed up, and— kneeling in isolation under Gargantua and his dying sun— he began to quietly sob. He cried until he was breathless, until he had to pull his visor off to wipe the damp and snot from his face. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Ford leaned towards his alternate self.

“You are not forgotten,” he whispered shakily, voice rough from weeks— perhaps months— of silence. “I’ll hold your memory for you.”

Slowly, he reached his gloved hand towards the the young Ford's paled face, and slid his eyelids shut.

He pulled himself to his feet soon after, pins and needles marring his lower legs from the time he spent kneeling on them. In his grasp, a once thought lost memento. A memory of another life. Ford adjusted the strap of his backpack, picked up his walking stick, and gave one last sparing glance at his fallen counterpart. His heart thrummed with sorrow.

As the traveler continued on his way through the dry, rugged plains, a part of him marveled at the reality that elsewhere, not even a second had passed. For after all, there was no time on this world.

No way to visibly track one’s passage through reality when caught in the throes of a black hole.

No way, except perhaps, through the acquisition of a memory.

Ford glanced at the photograph he’d taken with him, the corners crinkled and splattered with blood. Two twin children stood on the remains of a boat, the sunset on an infinite horizon stretching behind them.

                                                               

**Author's Note:**

> Lovingly dedicated to my friend Taka, who bribed me into getting out of bed this morning by drawing angst of portal Ford lying alone and dead. Thank you for catering to the whims of my messed up mind and inspiring this.


End file.
